Free Liar by Justine Larbalestier

slides in next to me as if we’re friends. How can she have forgotten how much we’re not? Why is she talking to me about whether Zach loved her?
    â€œDid you?” she asks.
    â€œDid I what?” I don’t want her to sit next to me. I want to eat my lunch alone, undisturbed, unobserved. Ever since Zach disappeared—no, ever since Brandon blabbed—people have been watching me, talking about me. But me and Sarah sitting together for lunch? That’s too weird. Everyone in the cafeteria is watching, leaning forward, trying to overhear.
    â€œDid you love him?” she asks, lowering her voice.
    I roll my eyes so I don’t have to say out loud how stupid I think her question is. “He’s dead, Sarah,” I say quietly. “Thinking about him, talking about him all the time, that’s not going to make him come back to life. You do know that, right?”
    She flinches but her eyes don’t fill with tears. “I just asked you if you loved him. Why’s that such a hard question to answer?”
    I sigh. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”
    â€œYou’re scared of answering,” Sarah says. “That means you loved him.”
    â€œIf you say so. I suppose you think you loved him.” I don’t want to talk about Zach with her. I don’t want to talk about Zach with anyone. Saying his name hurts, thinking it . . . I realize then that neither of us has been saying his name. We say “he” or “him” or “his” but never “Zach.”
    â€œOf course,” Sarah says.
    â€œWe weren’t together, Sarah. Brandon was lying. And I’ve been messing with you. We’d run together sometimes. There wasn’t anything else to it.”
    â€œYou have his sweater.”
    â€œI was cold. He loaned it to me.” I wasn’t cold. My head was in his lap. He was stroking the tiny curls on my scalp. All I could smell was him. I said I liked his sweater. He took it off, gave it to me. It stank of him. Zach reek. I love that sweater.
    â€œI’m not stupid,” Sarah says, and I don’t laugh. “You think you’re so good at hiding things but I can read you. I know you were together. You can’t keep the way you think about him off your face. I know you loved him. You did, didn’t you?”
    I shrug. Sarah starts to cry again. Quietly, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone is staring. They can see. I wish I could cry.
    â€œWhy are you so cynical?” It’s not an angry question. I think she really wants to know.
    â€œTrying to be like my dad,” I tell her, which isn’t even close to true. But she’s seen my arms-dealing daddy so she probably believes he’s all tough and cynical and worldly-wise. Dad isn’t cynical at all. Not really. He’s chock-full of hope and optimism.
    I suspect my cynicism comes from pretending to be what I’m not; covering myself in lies makes me cynical. I know I’m not trustworthy. How likely is it that the world is true if I’m not?
    But my dad lies as much as I do and he’s not cynical.
    â€œDo you think he loved you?” Sarah asks, wiping her eyes discreetly. I wonder who she thinks she’s fooling.
    â€œWho? My dad?” I ask, even though I know exactly who she means. “Of course he does. He’s my dad.”
    â€œNo, Zach. Do you think Zach loved you?”
    I have a strong urge to punch Sarah in the face.
    She said his name.
    Instead, I turn to my cold BLT, peeling away the damp bread, pushing the wilted lettuce aside. The bacon is burned. I have to chew hard to get it small enough to swallow.
    â€œAs much as he loved any of his running partners, I suppose,” I say at last, hoping that I never have to speak to Sarah again. But June is so far away.

    FAMILY HISTORY
    The family illness isn’t just acne and excessive blood. There’s more to it than that—yet another reason I take